


Victory Run

by Piscaria



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: stop_drop_howl, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:56:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek narrowly escape from rogue hunters. Then sex happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory Run

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://lolafeist.livejournal.com/profile)[**lolafeist**](http://lolafeist.livejournal.com/)'s prompt "adrenaline rush" at [](http://stop-drop-howl.livejournal.com/profile)[**stop_drop_howl**](http://stop-drop-howl.livejournal.com/).

  
It happened by instinct. Derek was down, scuttling forward on his elbows, arrows jutting like hedgehog spikes from his legs and back. The hunters had laughed as they hit him, jeering through the open windows of their truck. Even as Stiles watched, the truck spun around for another pass, throwing up a cascade of gravel behind it. Derek was up to his hands and knees now. His legs were already healing but slowly, too slowly. Fully turned, the truck started towards Derek, aiming straight for him.

Later, Stiles would never figure out what, exactly, had propelled him forward. One second, the truck was hurtling towards Derek. The next, Stiles was plowing into him, sending them both rolling into the wild rose bushes at the side of the road.

The truck squealed to a stop, and Stiles scuttled to his hands and knees, knowing he had to move, to run. Thorny branches dug into his arms and legs, caught at his clothes, and Stiles instinctively covered his eyes with his arm, shielding them as he found his feet. He stood, shakily, just as the row of fog lights mounted on the cab roof of the truck flared on. Blinking, Stiles could dimly make out the silhouette of the hunter steadying himself against the cab of the truck, lifting his crossbow into position.

 _Oh shit, I’m dead_ , Stiles thought. The thought had a kind of horrifyingly familiar ring to it, like, _Oh shit, I forgot to take out the garbage_ or _Oh shit, there’s a test today._ Stiles swallowed, pressing backwards, into the rosebush, searching frantically for somewhere, anywhere, to hide, to escape.

Then Derek erupted from the darkness, the red glare of his eyes visible even through the blinding fog lights. The hunter’s sudden scream cut off abruptly. Stiles heard a wet, ripping sound that he didn’t even want to think about it, then the roar of truck wheels spinning, trying to catch purchase on the gravel road. Stiles’s heartbeat pounded in his chest. Fabric tore as he wrestled free of the rosebush, not sure what the driver was doing, but knowing he was too close to the road. He had to get away.

Strong fingers clapped around his wrist, startling a gasp out of him. Derek tugged him towards the forest, hard enough that Stiles half-suspected he’d lose his arm if he didn’t follow. Then they were running.

In the darkness, Stiles could barely see a thing. More than once, he tripped over a fallen branch and stumbled forward, saved from falling only by the iron grip of Derek’s hand around his wrist. He stumbled forward blindly, trusting Derek’s werewolf vision not to steer him straight into a boulder or a ravine. For his part, Derek navigated the twisting branches of the forest as easily as if it were the lacrosse field at school, swift enough, even on two legs and holding back, that Stiles could never have kept up with him without the adrenaline surging through his veins, propelling him forward. For the first time in his life, Stiles was grateful for all the suicide runs in lacrosse. He huffed out breath after gasping breath, forcing his limbs to keep moving.

Derek finally drew to a halt, his hand still gripping Stiles’s wrist. Stiles’s legs felt so shaky that he thought he might collapse. He fumbled his way up Derek’s arm to his shoulder in the darkness, holding on tight to keep himself upright. From this distance, he could smell the deep, musky scent that rose in waves from Derek’s neck, see the pulse hammering in his throat. His eyes were human again, the color of the sea on a stormy day. The fingernails brushing the pulse point in Stiles’s wrist were blunt and a little ragged. His chest rose and fell in time with Stiles’s, as if he, too, were shaken. And his face --

“You.” Stiles took a breath, released it. Swallowed. “You have blood in your beard.”

Almost automatically, Derek brought his hand to his face, scrubbing the back of it against his chin, but only managing to smear it even further.

“No,” Stiles said. “You’re making a mess. Here, let me . . .” He’d shrugged his way out of his hoodie and was lifting the sleeve to dab at Derek’s face when it suddenly hit him that Derek had actually ripped someone’s throat out. With his teeth. He glanced from the sleeve of his hoodie to the gore on Derek’s chin, and swallowed, suddenly keenly aware of just how absurd his life had gotten.

A muscle jumped in Derek’s jaw, like he was trying to hold back a smile. Their eyes met. A hysterical laugh escaped Stiles, wild and uncontrollable, and once he’d started laughing, he couldn’t stop, howling like the blood and the goddamned hoodie were the most hysterical things he’d ever seen in his life. His knees half-buckled under him, and he stumbled forward, catching himself with the hand on Derek’s shoulder. One of Derek’s hands splayed out on the small of his back, steadying him. His chest rumbled against Stiles’s. And then – holy shit – Derek was laughing, really laughing, his head thrown back and his body shaking with it. Stiles had never heard Derek laugh, he realized. For some reason, it seemed absolutely hilarious now. Their eyes met again, and it set them both off. They collapsed against each other, cracking up, gripping each other’s arms for balance.

Derek’s tugged Stiles closer, catching him up in something too rough to be a hug, but maybe in the hug family, like a hug’s distant cousin or something. His forehead tipped down to rest on Stiles’s shoulder. Both of their bodies were shaking with laughter, and Stiles’s face was wet with tears, and he just gripped Derek’s shoulders and held on, unsure if he was laughing or crying now. All he knew was that his chest ached from it, that his limbs were still shaking with adrenaline, and that he was alive right now, they were both alive, and they shouldn’t be, they really shouldn’t, but . . .

“Stiles,” Derek said, pulling back to look at him. “Breathe.”

Breathe. Yeah. Breathing was good. Stiles gasped in the cool, night air, which tingled cedar-fresh in his nostrils and against his tongue. Derek’s hands curled around his biceps, thumbs almost absently working under the sleeves of Stiles’s t-shirt to rub comforting circles against his bare skin. Derek’s face was more open than Stiles had ever seen it, as though the laughter had shaken away some of the sourness that usually armored his expression. His eyes were soft, almost fond, as he looked at Stiles, the corners of his mouth turned up in a rare smile.

 _He almost died_ , Stiles thought, his grip tightening around Derek’s shoulders. Derek had almost died, but now he was alive. He was alive, the corners of his mouth crinkling, _smiling_ down at Stiles, and so fucking gorgeous that it made Stiles’s heart ache. He felt suddenly eight years old, looking at Lydia’s strawberry-blonde hair wave behind her as she kicked high on the swing set, knowing in his heart that he’d always love her. And he did, like he loved sunsets and rainstorms and a thousand beautiful things he couldn’t touch.

But Derek was here, warm and solid beneath his hands. His jeans were torn where the arrows had pierced them, smeared with blood and dirt. His hair was sweat-spiked, tousled from running. He still had blood in his goddamned beard. And Stiles knew with absolute certainty that he would throw himself in front of a hundred trucks for Derek.

The hands around Stiles’s biceps suddenly spasmed, gripping hard enough to bruise. Derek leaned further into Stiles’s space and inhaled sharply, whiskers tickling the soft skin of Stiles’s throat. He pulled back to look at Stiles, eyes wide and incredulous. Stiles’s mouth opened and closed, caught between the sudden realization that he was attracted to Derek, and the equally sudden humiliation at having that attraction sniffed out.

Derek’s eyes landed on Stiles’s mouth and he licked his own lips. For a second, maybe less, Stiles was sure that Derek was going to lean forward and bridge that last remaining space between them. Stiles tilted his face up instinctively, heart pounding in his chest. Then Derek’s face was shuttering, and he was pulling back, leaving Stiles’s chilled without the heat of his body. The hoodie had fallen somewhere onto the ground between them. Derek was shoving his hands into his pockets, stepping backwards, into the darkness. He was deliberately not looking at Stiles, and no, hell no, Stiles had not practically gotten himself killed for this.

Before he could second guess himself, Stiles was lunging forward, fisting his hands in the front of Derek’s shirt and slamming their mouths together. Derek froze against him, preternaturally still. And then his mouth was tearing at Stiles’s, and he was gripping Stiles’s hips, tugging him forward.

Stiles slid his hands under Derek’s t-shirt, splaying his fingers out over the impossibly smooth skin of Derek’s chest and back. His nerves were burning, igniting from the hot slide of Derek’s tongue against his own, from the rough press of Derek’s erection through his jeans. Derek’s hands were fumbling with his belt, and – hell yeah, that was his hand, slipping into Stiles’s pants and palming his erection through his boxers.

“Shit,” Stiles grunted. “Fuck. _Derek._ ”

He bucked up into Derek’s grip, seeking his mouth blindly, trying to get more, to get closer, to get . . . hell, he didn’t even know what he wanted, just that he did want and desperately.

“Shh,” Derek hushed, breaking away from Stiles’s mouth to bite at his neck. “I’ve got you.” He was sinking to his knees as he spoke, lifting the hem of Stiles’s t-shirt with the hand that wasn’t getting intimately acquainted with Stiles’s dick inside his pants. Stiles bit his lip, groaning as Derek’s tongue followed the trail of hair down his stomach to the waistband of his boxers. Derek drew his face along the bulge in Stiles’s jeans, and fucking inhaled him, eyes falling shut in apparent bliss.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles whispered as Derek urged his legs wider, bit at the inside of his thighs through his jeans.

“Stiles,” Derek groaned. “I need to taste you. Need . . .”

“Do it.” Stiles shoved his jeans down until they tangled around his sneakers, freeing his erection to bob against Derek’s cheek. “Be my guest. Taste away.”

At the first hot touch of Derek’s mouth, Stiles thought he might explode. He gripped the back of Derek’s head, trying to reconcile the Alpha werewolf he knew with this new Derek, who was swallowing down Stiles’s cock with a greedy mouth, kneading Stiles’s ass and the backs of his thighs.

“You taste so good.” Derek lifted his mouth just long enough to scent along the length of him, the sight so unbelievably hot that Stiles’s hands tightened in his hair. “Do you even know how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

“Was it when you wanted me to cut your arm off?” Stiles asked, because his brain to mouth filter was faulty even at the best of times. Then Derek was glaring up at him, and Stiles was babbling. “Shit! Sorry. Way to break the mood. Just. Fuck, don’t stop, please don’t --“

“Stiles,” Derek interrupted. (His mouth, Stiles thought frantically. His mouth was just on me.) “Shut up.”

Then his tongue was back, teasing a line up the underside of Stiles’s cock. Derek’s eyes fluttered shut as he kissed the tip of Stiles’s cock, and yeah, shutting up, Stiles could do that. Derek swallowed Stiles’s cock again, gripping his hips to hold him in place. Stiles realized with a sense of rising hysteria that he’d watched Derek rip someone’s throat out earlier today, with the same soft, wet mouth that was driving Stiles crazy. He always thought of Derek as fierce, almost terrifying, but here he was, gentle, almost reverent, as he took Stiles deeper, swallowing him down like he was a fucking delicacy. His mouth was like a furnace, his jawline strong and firm, and fuck, he looked almost blissed out like this, his lashes fluttering against his cheekbones like he was dreaming.

The hands on Stiles’s hips rocked him forward, urging him to move, to fuck into Derek’s mouth. Hesitantly, Stiles obeyed, afraid to push too far, to choke Derek. Then he felt the pinprick of claws against his hips, pain blossoming, then gone in and instant, and yeah, point made. Literally. Stiles took a deep breath and shoved forward roughly. Derek made a low, pleased sound that vibrated all through Stiles’s cock. Encouraged, Stiles shifted his hand to the back of Derek’s head, holding him in place while he pounded forward, fucking him in earnest, and Derek – Derek just took it, yielding himself up to each press of Stiles's hips. His lips were glistening, stretched wide around Stiles’s mouth. When his eyes fluttered open, his irises were red.

Distantly, Stiles heard the sound of a zipper and looked down to find Derek taking himself in hand. Stiles felt a surge of white-hot possession at the sight of the red head peeking obscenely from Derek’s fist. He thrust harder into Derek’s mouth, tangling his hands into Derek’s hair. Derek’s hand pistoned up and down with renewed vigor, his mouth so wet and hot around Stiles.

The iron taste of blood blossomed in Stiles’s mouth as he bit his lip, trying to bite back the groan in his throat. It escaped anyway, and fuck, was that even his voice? He hardly recognized it. Derek growled around his cock, inhuman and hotter than it had any right to be.

“Fuck,” Stiles choked, and then Derek’s throat was moving greedily, swallowing Stiles’s come.

Derek pulled off, gasping, and Stiles hissed at the chill of night air against his softening cock. He dropped to his knees, fumbling his fingers around Derek’s, still working his cock. Derek buried his face in Stiles’s neck as he came, painting white stripes over Stiles’s thighs and belly.

Curiously, Stiles smeared a finger into the mess. Derek’s eyes were hot and possessive, tracking the finger as Stiles stuck it into his mouth. Stiles inhaled sharply at the taste, and Derek groaned, low and pleased.

“God, come here.” Derek tugged at Stiles’s head, pulling him in for a kiss. His undone jeans scraped against Stiles’s bare belly, and Stiles flushed, realizing that he was half naked while Derek was still mostly clothed. Then Derek’s mouth was claiming his, and he didn’t care anymore. Every breath he took felt like a victory.

 _We’re alive,_ Stiles thought. _We’re alive and together._ And for that moment, it was enough.

The End  



End file.
